Arthur was fighting tooth and nail, his muscles burning with each swing of his blade. One grimhound after another fell before him. Yet for each beast he felled, another scar was added to his ever-growing collection—a tapestry of pain etched across his skin in crimson lines.
The rain had plastered his hair to his forehead, rivulets of water mixing with blood as they tracked down his face. The storm above continued its furious symphony, providing a grim soundtrack to what might be his final battle.
But Arthur couldn't hold out much longer. His movements, once fluid and precise, were becoming increasingly desperate. He was getting caught more frequently, dealing fewer killing blows and simply defending against the onslaught. His breath came in rapid, shallow gasps as his stamina drained like water through cupped hands. The initial rush of adrenaline was fading, and the pain of his accumulated injuries built with each passing moment, threatening to overwhelm him.
